


Case 19: The Adventure Of The Poison Pen (1880)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [26]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Denial of Feelings, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Illegitimacy, Inheritance, Jealousy, Johnlock - Freeform, Journalism, London, M/M, Newspapers, Prostitution, Scotland, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-05 21:31:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16375358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: ֍ The power of the press is one of the important balancing forces in modern society but like all power it can be abused, sometimes to evil ends. And a certain consulting detective makes a rather unfortunate discovery.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [supersockie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supersockie/gifts).



_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

A few months back I had solved a trifling matter for my half-brother Mr. Campbell Kerr, owner of the chain of molly-houses. The details were insignificant to the point of boredom but I do remember one thing in particular that arose out of it as it led into this small case. 

After the disgusting case of the Tankerville Club and the vile treatment of those poor black men, the sixteen 'freed' victims had been dispatched to a quiet place in the country so that they might recuperate. All made full recoveries and one of them, a quiet almost inconsequential fellow called Mr. Alan Buxted, asked if he could work at Campbell's house. Despite the fact that my hulk of a relative made more than two of him I could see when they came seeking my help that despite the fourteen-year age gap there was something between them and wished them well for the future. Campbell had smiled and said that one day I would see the one with whom I wished to spend the rest of my life with and like him I would just _know._ I had smiled at him but had dismissed the idea; for all his life choices my half-brother was always something of a romantic.

It was only two days after our return from Scotland that I came back to Cramer Street to find Watson already working at his manuscript for the _'Gloria Scott'_ case. He had looked up at me from his sheaf of papers and smiled. And my heart had sank like a stone.

Campbell had been right, damn the fellow. I just _knew!_

֍

It was obviously quite impossible that there could be anything between Watson and myself. For one thing we were both men. For another we were still both men. Also he was young, far more attractive that I could ever hope to be and had the prospects of a highly successful and lucrative career once he became fully established in his profession. I was a vagabond, a man destined to serve others and my city but never to have anything myself and resigned that that was my fate in this life. And there was the not inconsiderable factor that despite the fortuitous friendship of Mr. Khrushnic I was likely to attract the attentions of some very undesirable people sooner rather than later, of the sort who would target anyone close to me without mercy. I could not risk exposing the man I.... admired to such danger. It was perhaps fortunate therefore that a case came my way shortly after this revelation and I was able to divert my energies into it rather than fretting over what I could never have. And would never deserve to have.

Watson's brother was wrong. There was more than one occupant of this house a long way up a river in north-east Africa.

֍

Ironically it was one of my half-brothers 'boys' who brought this new matter to our attention (I do not know why he called them that as they were most definitely all men and he refused to employ anyone who could not provide full proof of their majorities unlike rather too many other establishments). This 'boy' was a seemingly nondescript fellow in his late twenties called Mr. Gawain Reston, one of those strange young fellows who always looked as if they were one meal away from starvation (although both our past and present landladies had apparently said much the same about me to Watson) and with clothes that he did not so much wear as rather look lost in. When he introduced himself I could see Watson's look of utter incredulity (he has never been good at concealing his emotions) as to what this fellow had that made other men... you know. 

Mr. Reston's 'secret' was in fact two-fold. First, as I knew from the one time I had chanced to meet him at my half-brother's molly-house, he had an amazing muscular definition for his size. And second.... well, perhaps later I might 'accidentally' leave out Campbell's catalogue in which Mr. Reston was listed as 'Foot-Long Fergus' where Watson could... no, that would be cruel. 

Probably cruel.

“Mr. Kerr said it was all right to come and see you, sirs”, he said politely (he sounded like he had come fresh from an elocution lesson and there was barely a trace of his Scots accent). “Something rather strange happened yesterday and what with today's paper I thought I would ask to approach you to see if you might look into it for me.”

“Is there anything unusual in the _'Times'_ , Watson?” I asked.

“Just this terrible fog, the forthcoming election and that coal-mine explosion in Staffordshire”, he said. “And Malcolm Duke of Cromartyshire† is involved in some scandal or other again. Typical of the fellow; he never could keep it in his trousers.”

“The duke is my father”, Mr. Reston said calmly.

Watson went pale. I have to admit that the news surprised even me; I knew that Malcolm Duke of Cromartyshire lived partly in London and was often being criticized for the poor management of his Scottish estates in the county he took his title from. And the newspaper's criticism was more likely than not justified given his reputation. But.... well.

“I know that he is some eighty years of age and I am but twenty-seven”, Mr. Reston said patiently. “Even those in _my_ profession can manage basic mathematics, gentlemen. The jibe made some time back that he could raise a regiment from his bastard sons was I might say rather too close to the truth.”

“May I ask if you have any contact with the family?” I ventured.

“Not as such”, he smiled. “Even without the mess that he and his sons are making of the estate they could not afford to fund all his bastard offspring. It is what happened two days ago that has given me cause for concern which is why I came here.”

“Family does not end in blood”, Watson observed.

“Mine may be about to do just that”, Mr. Reston said. “The title is one of the oldest in Scotland and, by a great stroke of misfortune, nominative rather than successive.”

“He means that the current holder of the title may nominate anyone as his heir provided they are of the bloodline”, I explained to a clearly puzzled Watson. “Even you, sir.”

Mr. Reston chuckled.

“I think that I would rather bet on Martians invading than that ever happening!” he smiled. “The duke has three sons; Malcolm, Torquil and Archibald. All have sons and grandsons to continue the line although sad to say most are like my father, what the Bible calls 'bad seed'. My late mother's cousin Ben works at the house and he says that the only one that he would give tuppence for is Mr. Archibald's eldest son Edmund, who is but fourteen years of age. Otherwise it is a case of the apples not falling far from the tree.”

“Two days ago I had a client whom I did not think anything of at first. We did what he wished and had paid for but afterwards he wished to talk about me, which I thought unusual although it is not unknown. Indeed I think some gentlemen really wish only for someone to listen to but consider going to a molly-house more 'manly'. Such are our species, I suppose. I did not of course reveal my parentage to this fellow but his questions led me to suspect that he knew of it and was prompting me for information. I did not like it at all.”

“You believe that one of your half-brothers is trying to obtain information to use against the others?” I asked. He nodded.

“As I said there is a veritable regiment of bastard MacGyvers out there”, he said. “I am sure that some of them will talk given enough money. The newspapers speculate about Father all the time of course but we all know how society functions; as long as there is no actual _proof_ then people will continue to accept him. And for all his arrogance he does crave acceptance.”

I looked thoughtfully at the young fellow.

“There is something else”, I said. “Something you have not yet mentioned.”

He smiled.

“You are correct”, he said. “Ben wrote to me recently to tell me that Father recently suffered a mild stroke. He has made a partial recovery but he is not what he once was.”

“I did not read that in the newspapers”, Watson said.

I smirked at his admission that he perhaps read the social pages more than most gentlemen. He stared suspiciously at me.

“It was covered up”, Mr. Reston explained, “and he was told to rest for two weeks. A sprained ankle was the reason given out. But he was told to avoid any further stress in his life especially given his age. It is my opinion that my recent client was most likely paid to try to extract information from me. He failed but despite my only tangential relationship to my family I am still concerned for them.”

I smiled inwardly at a molly-man using a word like 'tangential'. Then again the world was full of surprises.

“What would happen if your father died not having nominated anyone as heir?” I asked.

“That cannot happen”, he said. “On inheriting a new duke is obliged to make a choice, even if it is not made public. But there is always the chance that someone has found out what that choice was and is endeavouring to effect a change, especially now with time seemingly running out.”

“I shall most definitely look into this matter for you”, I promised. “It will take some time given the circumstances you have stated, but I will contact you at the house as soon as I have something.”

“Thank you, sir. And while I am here perhaps the doctor might be good enough to check an injury I sustained last week. A bruise on my thigh which has not healed as fast as I had hoped.”

Watson nodded his assent and I went to see what newspapers from the past few weeks I could obtain from Mrs. Hellingly.

֍

I was for once grateful of Watson's preference for reading the social pages (even if I did perhaps very rarely on occasion chivvy him on that). Returning to our rooms found Mr. Reston had left and he was presumably still in his room. I called out to him and after a while he came out looking strangely down.

“Is something the matter?” I asked surprised. He blushed.

“Nothing”, he said. “You said you wanted me to help you look at some articles?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. From his slightly rumpled clothes he had undressed for some reason, yet it was the middle of the day and he had no new clothes to try on.... oh my Lord he had not!

I felt a surge of bitter jealousy before logic reasserted itself. Campbell would never allow any of his 'boys' to behave in such a manner, I knew that. I should have known that. But why had my friend looked so embarrassed?

Then I got it. He had been comparing his body to that of the muscular Mr. Reston, just two years his junior and arguably rather more well-endowed. He stared hard at the floor clearly hoping I would say nothing.

I said nothing. Neither of us was in a position to comment, really.

֍


	2. Chapter 2

“The _'Times'_ is getting worse by the day”, Watson sighed some hours later after we had both been reading through far too many articles on people who could bore for England. “I do not know what it is that you wish me to find.”

“I do not 'wish' you to find anything”, I said. “I have read most of these myself but I know full well that it is easy to find something if you start out by looking for it.”

He just looked adorably confused. There was probably a pout somewhere in my immediate future which I would not find in the least bit adorable. And perhaps a(nother) journey up a long river in north-east Africa while my conscience just tutted at me.

“I suppose it is better than these terrible magazines you got from Mrs. Hellingly”, he said. “They are nothing but scandalous gossip.”

“Indeed”, I said. “I frankly wonder what sort of person keeps _that_ sort of thing on their bedside cabinet.”

He flushed most horribly.

“You saw!” he hissed.

“I called in on you one day last month and saw _'Peregrinations'_ there”, I grinned. “Three copies by the look of it.”

And there came the pout! He folded his arms and huffed at me.

“Your thoughts?” I prompted pointing to the pile of newspapers and magazines.

“I could do with a less nosier room-mate!”

I put on my most injured expression, the sort which had once had my mother drag Bacchus over her knee and give him six of the best (impressive as he had been nineteen at the time but then the annoying lounge-lizard had filched a rasher of my bacon). Watson folded at once. 

“I am sorry”, he said picking up a magazine. “I only saw one thing about all the articles apart from the fact they were all hostile to the duke and his family.”

“What was that?” I asked.

“They were all written by Scottish writers”, he said.

I just looked at him.

“The duke _is_ Scottish”, I pointed out.

“I know”, he said, “but these are all London magazines. There cannot be that many Scots writers in London who all just happen to hate the duke, surely?”

He really was a lot smarter than he often thought himself. I made a mental note to buy him an extra pie for being so clever. And I might even let him keep all his bacon at breakfast tomorrow...

No. That was going too far.

֍

I was in the area of my half-brother's molly-house the following day and took the chance to call in on him. He was away in the East End with Mr. Buxted apparently looking at taking over a molly-house there, but I was able to speak with Mr. Reston who from his dishevelled appearance had just come from a client. That and the fact he was only wearing a dressing-gown which.... well, such places were not exactly famed for their modesty.

“The cases progresses”, I said, “but I need to make a large number of inquiries into the world of journalism to discover who is behind these attacks on your family. That will I am afraid take some time.”

“I can help you there”, he said.

“You can?” I asked surprised. He grinned.

“We have several members of the press as our clients”, he smiled. “Not just for the obvious reasons; many of them come here thinking to extract secrets on the great and the good. We do not of course provide any such information; discretion is our watchword.”

That I knew to be true. In what was basically a sordid business my brother's success was because he maintained high standards that earned him a good reputation among both clients and employees alike. And I knew that he had once dismissed one fellow who had gone to the press with details about a client of his, and who had had a most unfortunate encounter with some of his former co-workers very soon after.

“They would help out?” I asked dubiously. I knew several journalists and frankly I thought most of them gave vultures a bad name. They had their uses but then so did sewage workers.

“In return for certain less critical information about some less desirable patrons”, he said. “Campbell has done that before when we had that member of parliament who tried to close us down; you remember the ghastly Mr. Bowles. The press 'discovered' things about his 'family' life that were quite improper and he backed away.”

I gave him a sheet of paper.

“These are the names of all the journalists who have written articles against your father and family along with the publications”, I said. “My clever medical friend observed that they are all of Scots ancestry which leads me to suspect some or most of them are pseudonyms. I need to know which if any of them are real and then we can proceed from there.”

“I will get on it right away”, Mr. Reston promised. “There was another article in the _'Times'_ today alleging financial impropriety on behalf of my half-brother Torquil. I doubt he would have the imagination although I am less certain about that shrew of a wife of his, but with all this mud at least some of it will stick.”

“That”, I said, “is all too true.”

֍

I have to admit that even I was surprised at the efficiency with which my half-brother's 'boys' were able to extract the required information from their journalists clientele. I made the mistake of remarking upon this to a certain medical acquaintance of mine who retorted that it was not just the information that had been extracted. I really do not know why I kept him around at times!

A week and two more articles later Watson and I were dining at the Plaza Hotel where my brother Gaillard was then working (in fairness I must correct the impression my friend's later works gave to some that my sibling's frequent changes of employment were due to his character understandable as such a claim might be; the truth was that he was good at his job and always got bored once he had made things work as efficiently as they could at a place). Gaillard had for once been useful in that he had been able to tell me that a certain person I wished to meet was dining there that evening which was good as it gave me a reason to treat Watson to an evening out. And yes, I did make sure to check my food before eating. _I knew my brother!_

Gaillard had been able to ensure that we were placed at a table next to my target so I was able to engender what seemed like a chance encounter.

“Sir Oliver?” I said feigning surprise.

Sir Oliver Robyn-Quisling was one of the chief advisers to Mr. Gladstone and an important figure in the political world at the time. As I mentioned earlier in this tale there was a general election looming and it was widely (and as it turned out correctly) predicted that the Liberals would sweep to power. Such men as the knight before me should have kept a low profile but he had become infamous after being caught talking to his employer shortly before a speech that had come out differently to what had been planned with the result that the _'Times'_ had done an infamous cartoon of him as a puppet-master controlling a puppet Gladstone. He had threatened to sue but nothing had come of it. He was about fifty years old and as the _'Times'_ had so accurately described him, a prime piece of pure prancing pomposity.

He looked down his nose at me.

“Who are you?” he said disdainfully.

I looked instead at the lady he was seated with whom I knew to be his wife Agnes. And whom I knew to be the daughter of a certain Caledonian duke.

“This _is_ a most fortuitous coincidence”, I said. “I was intending to visit you later this week over a set of newspaper articles.”

Neither of them reacted yet I could sense a change in the atmosphere.

“I do not know what you are talking about”, Sir Oliver said rudely. “Let me pass.”

“Not about Mr. Alan Cameron?” I smiled. “Mr. Aidan MacAvie? Mr. Stuart Carr? Mr. James Corrie? Would you like me to list the nine other pseudonyms?”

The knight had gone pale. 

“I know all”, I said quietly. Around us the buzz of the busy restaurant continued, while Watson and Mrs. Robyn-Quisling watched us intently. “I know of your attempt to discredit your father-in-law who despite his Scottish title holds considerable lands in Ireland and is well thought of by the new Home Rule Party who may hold the balance of power either after the forthcoming election or at some future date. I know of the articles written by those journalists and in whose handwriting they were submitted.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about”, Sir Oliver said loftily.

“I did not say that they were in _your_ handwriting, sir”, I smiled. “However I have obtained a sample of that of your secretary and that matches the writing on the articles perfectly. Furthermore I have obtained details of the bank account opened to receive payment for those articles – an account in both your name _and hers.”_

The man had gone deathly pale.

“I may or may not have more”, I said. “I will accept the cessation of these articles and your resignation. Otherwise.... I may use my contacts to make sure that certain people in authority receive some even more damning information.”

I leaned forward.

“Including the piece about that distinctive mole on your left buttock!” I whispered.

I may have said that a shade too loudly. His wife looked _murderous!_

֍

Sir Oliver Robyn-Quisling resigned his governmental post the next day. His wife had already left him and had initiated divorce proceedings. She had also taken a pair of scissors to her husband's wardrobe.

֍

_Postscriptum: There was an interesting epilogue to this case. I subsequently visited the duke in his London home and apprised him of how matters had developed, and he was more than gracious in rewarding me. Late the following year he did indeed die of a stroke and his will, when it was read, shocked his family. His estate and title were bequeathed to his grandson Edmund but the _management_ of the estate for the six or so years until the boy attained his majority fell to none other than Mr. Reston, who returned to Scotland and made such a good job of things that he was subsequently kept on as the estate manager._

֍

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> † Then still a separate county, comprising over twenty small enclaves scattered across the northern parts of Ross-shire which which it was merged in 1890. The principal towns were Cromarty, Strathpeffer and Ullapool, and combined it was about twenty per cent larger than the old county of Middlesex. At the election before the 1832 Great Reform Act it had had only nineteen votes registered – and thirteen of them had turned out to be fraudulent!


End file.
